Detour

May 20 2004

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We were on a mission to go to American Girl Place. Why? Because American Girl dolls are creepy. They're the most desperately aspirational little moppets that a parent can hope to buy for their young Dakota or Bayleigh. American Girl dolls cost approximately as much as an eighth of good weed, and you can expect to pay as much for their outfits as you do for your own at Old Navy.

And American Girl Place is where little girls with better childhoods than ours and their families go to buy dolls, buy doll clothes, buy actual human girl clothes to match the doll clothes, watch the "American Girl Musical Revue" (seriously), and dine at the American Girl Place Cafe with special chairs for, no shit, the dolls.

So maybe you'll understand that something about American Girl Place totally made us want to throw down.

But we needed a doll to help us do it. We couldn't just walk in: we needed someone to represent. We bought a cheap knockoff doll from Target and gave her ballpoint pen tattoos, Sharpie eyeliner, and a minidress made from nylons. We named her "Courtney." Then we made reservations at the Cafe for Sunday tea.

The rest, really, is Courtney's story...

When the gals approached me with this whole prank deal, I was all, "Fuck that American Girl shit." I couldn't wait to get to tear their shit up old skool.

I will admit that when we got to American Girl, all the classy, overpriced, white-girl crap there sort of took the piss out of me. Those AG girls have good shit. I don't know who I'd have to blow to pay for some of those dresses, but man, I wanted a pink one. I wanted the doll beauticians to put my hair in pigtails. And more than I can even tell you, I wanted to be an American Girl doll.

We scored a window table for tea. Finger sandwiches, petit fours, and my good friend Bacardi. Nothing soothes the jealous heart like good Bacardi rum. After getting totally shit-faced, it seems (and I don't know for sure because Shylo and Wendy refuse to tell me) that I struck up a convo with an AG doll. I guess I gave her some booze and then we made out. At some point, we beat the hell out of each other. I guess I won though, because the next thing this drunk-ass doll remembers is standing on our table singing "Kiss Me Deadly" by Lita Ford.

It was cool.

Our delightful knockoff came with a pre-fabbed white trash name. We ditched the mic stand, re-named her Courtney, and kept the tarty jacket.

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